


it is okay.

by gayblockz (lizandre)



Series: trans fundy pog [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (with actual comfort this time), Angst, Daddy Issues, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Transphobia, Supportive father Wilbur Soot, Trans Floris | Fundy, Trans Male Character, Unintentional Transphobia, Wilbur is trying to be a good dad, important note: this fic is specifically abt the dream smp characters not real ppl, irl fundy is not trans this is just a character, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizandre/pseuds/gayblockz
Summary: “So, why did you come here?” Ghostbur turned around to his son, badly masked excitement splattered over his face.Fundy struggled with pushing out the answer.“Dad, am I a real boy?”
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Jschlatt, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Series: trans fundy pog [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056434
Comments: 29
Kudos: 433





	it is okay.

**Author's Note:**

> more trans fundy bc trans fundy is pogchamp 
> 
> also this one is not as sad :)

Fundy felt like absolute shit. So, fittingly, he descended into the place where shit was supposed to go, down the sewers. The real reason he was there was a bit different, admittedly, but he still let out a scoff at the coincidence.

The real reason was that there was a certain individual living here that Fundy wanted to talk to. Well, wanted was a strong word, there was definitely a part of him that was desperate to dash out of there, but his feet remained firmly standing in front of the iron entrance, behind which he could hear a soft voice humming a tune, complimented by bubbling noises of brewing potions. Fundy held his fist up in front of the door for longer than he needed to, hesitating, an internal battle being fought in his brain between desperately wanting and dreading a conversation with the ghost of what was once his dear father.

When he finally broke free of his own chains and knocked on the door, the humming came to an abrupt stop.

“Who is there?” the floaty voice asked, muffled by the iron barrier.

“It’s me, Fundy,” he replied, immediately cringing at his own name. It has been hard to say it these past few days, the fact that he chose it himself smacked him in the face every time, and usually he’d be proud of it, but recently it has been just serving as a reminder of his own ungratefulness to both his parents.

“Oh, son!” Fundy could hear the clanking of bottles from behind the door, melodically falling into rhythm with his own foot tapping nervously on the stone floor.

Upon opening the door, the boy discovered a ghost, floating slightly above the ground, hands filled with three fresh potions of invisibility, and three more still brewing on the little stand in front of him. Ghostbur smiled at his visitor and turned around to store the bottles of lilac into a barrel. Fundy took this time to look around the small room, the toned down, desaturated colours serving as a comforting rest from the overwhelming surface.

Fundy stepped inside, feeling the door behind him close slowly with a soft click. The cozy smallness of the room engrossed him like a thick, weighted blanket. Ironically, the open outside felt more oppressive lately, but he guessed the serenity brought him a sense of safety. The painfully familiar face also probably helped.

“So, why did you come here?” Ghostbur turned around to his son, badly masked excitement splattered over his face.

Fundy struggled with pushing out the answer.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the ghost immediately amended, interpreting the silence incorrectly. “If you just wanted to see your dad, that’s fine! We could find something to do! I mean, if you want to, of course, I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, you can leave anytime you wish, don’t you even worry about it, don’t—”

“Dad, am I a real boy?”

Fundy blurted it out and instantly stared at his own feet, not daring to look into his father’s face, like ripping off a band aid and wondering whether the scab came off, too terrified to watch possible blood spilling everywhere.

A single heartbeat passed in absolute silence.

“Of- of course you are!” Ghostbur’s audibly worried voice snapped the silence like a guitar string. “Fundy, of course you are a real boy! A real man, even! The realest, I’d say, a most definitely real boy, my son!”

Fundy looked up, faint pain lacing his irises. Ghostbur didn’t do it the way alive Wilbur did.

Whenever the fox boy came to his dad with his anxieties, he would be calm, collected, confidently assure his son that everything is okay, and that energy, in turn, would rub off on Fundy, who would feel his worries disappear in favor of his father’s soft voice. That was, when he wasn’t dead.

Ghostbur’s concern was written all over his face and body language: his frown, his furrowed brows, his hands which reached out to his son ever so slightly. That was a part of being transparent, Fundy guessed, he could see through the ghost in more ways than one. It wasn’t worse, necessarily, all these gestures showed that Ghostbur _cared_ , which tugged at the strange feeling in the boy’s heart, but the sharp difference between his living father and what floated slightly above the stone in front of him hurt him like thousands of tiny explosions in his chest.

Two ghostly arms wrapped themselves around Fundy’s shoulders, the cold aura hitting harshly against the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You are a real boy,” Ghostbur’s tone went softer as he rubbed soothing circles into his son’s back. “Fundy… who— who told you you aren’t?

The last five words struck him like a sword to his gut.

“Who told you that? Whoever it was, they’re wrong, don’t listen to them, Fundy, if they ever bother you again you can talk to me, – or Phil! – and we’ll help you, we can make sure they never say anything like that to you ever—”

“I did.”

A silence fell between them. Again.

“…what?”

“I did, I told that to myself,” Fundy’s bitter gaze shot daggers through Ghostbur as he pushed the half transparent hands off himself. “I say that to myself, quite a lot, actually.”

“But…” confusion filled the dull, grey eyes. “But why?”

“Because it’s true!” the boy snapped, his tears once again overflowing. “It’s true, isn’t it! I’m not a _real_ boy, everyone knows that, they just play along to be nice!”

For the next moment, the bubbling of the potions was only accompanied by his heavy breathing and an occasional sob. Cold fingers sent shivers down his spine as Ghostbur cupped his cheek.

“Fundy…”

“No! Don’t say that name!” his voice cracked, and Ghostbur opened his mouth but Fundy cut him off before more words could pierce him like a frail sheet of paper. “It’s just a reminder of how much of a disappointment I am.”

The ghost took a perplexed pause before speaking.

“What do you mean?”

“My name,” he sniffled, wiping away the tears. “Before I was named Fundy, you told me how my name was given to me by mom, Sally, and how I, along with my name, was the last thing left from her,” no matter how much he tried, the emotions still overtook him, and he felt water streaming down his cheeks yet again. “And then I had to go and change it, just because I didn’t like it. So selfish.”

The last words were pushed out with almost genuine visceral hatred, which took Ghostbur aback. He looked like he sunk into deep thought for a while.

“Your previous name meant a lot, you say?”

A solemn nod.

“Hm. That’s weird. I don’t remember it.”

Fundy’s head snapped up, staring at his father.

“I don’t remember your previous name,” the ghost confirmed, looking up as if plunged into his memory. “I remember your name wasn’t always Fundy, but I also know that’s who you always really were,” he shrugged. “Must’ve not meant enough to make the cut, I guess.”

The boy stared at his dad in disbelief. The moment when Wilbur told him how he and his name were the last thing left over from Sally played on loop in his mind for years, and turns out it wasn’t important enough to his father to even remember it?

“The most important memory I have from before you were named Fundy…” Ghostbur continued, thoughtfully. “You were crying. The memory isn’t sad, though. You were crying, and you were saying to me how you feel different. You said you didn’t think you were a girl. You asked if that was possible. You asked if you could stop being a girl. And I said that if you don’t think you’re a girl, you’re not a girl.”

Fundy didn’t even notice how he ended up clinging onto the ghostly figure of his father, crying into his bright yellow sweater, as Ghostbur calmly and soothingly stroked his son’s hair.

“I asked you what you think you are, if you’re not a girl. You said you think you’re like Tommy and Tubbo. You said you think you’re like me. I asked you if you think you’re a boy, and you said yes. You were unsure, you were scared. And I told you it’s okay for you to not know yet. It’s fine to take things slow before figuring it all out. I told you that you can always tell me whatever you think you are, and that I will never judge you, no matter how many times your mind changes, and no matter how ridiculous it seems. I said…”

“You said you’ll always believe me,” Fundy finished, quietly. “I remember.”

Ghostbur smiled softly, fondly rubbing his son’s back.

“I remember Sally, too,” the ghost’s tone turned a slight bit bluer. It sounded way too much like alive Wilbur. “I remember our time together, but I remember her separately from you. I remember her by her voice, by her laugh, by her beautiful eyes… the only person I remember by you is, well… you.”

Fundy smiled, slightly, and his father noticed, laughing lightly and gently ruffling his son’s hair.

“I remember when you told me your name. It was a while after you came out, it took you some time to figure out what you wanted to be called. There were several names you considered, which ones were there? Thomas, Felix…”

“Rock,” Fundy cut in, and Ghostbur laughed.

“Yes, there was that phase.”

“Why did you actually listen and called me that, though?” Fundy looked up at his dad. “It was stupid.”

“I told you,” the grey fingers slid down the ginger locks. “I will always believe you, no matter how ridiculous it seems. If you wanted me to call you Rock, of course I called you Rock.”

“I chose Rock because I was so sick of being nameless,” Fundy admitted. “I was so tired of trying to pick names and none of them fitting. I just wanted to be called something, at least, so I picked the first thing that came to mind, I literally went outside and named myself after the first object I saw, and it was Rock.”

Ghostbur chuckled, and it fit right in with the bubbly musicality of the rest of the room.

“That’s okay. Frustration with things not happening as soon as you want them to is an understandable feeling. You found your name eventually. I was so proud of you when you told me you wanted to be called Fundy.”

“It’s kind of a dumb name, though, isn’t it,” Fundy’s tears were now all dry, although a shard of the sadness was still left in his voice.

“No it isn’t,” the ghost said it as if he just heard the most ridiculous thing in his life (death?). “It’s your name. And it’s lovely. I like it, a lot.”

Fundy let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. It’s been a while since he felt this type of comfort from his father. Ever since the election, everything went wrong. Fundy didn’t like remembering that era. He had too many regrets in regards to it.

Not immediately joining his father’s side, not trying to get in contact with him after he left, not stopping him from spiraling into madness.

Trusting Schlatt.

_I am something. I’m what you’re not. I am a man._

Those words kept him awake at night, stopped him in his tracks on the brightest of days, planted paranoias in his mind that ate him alive.

Schlatt didn’t know, and thank god he didn’t. Fundy never told him, and, thankfully, neither did anybody else who did know. The rational voice said that he was talking about the fox thing, he was emasculating his enemies for the sake of feeling superior, he was making fun of him for his age – but that voice was drowned out by the maliciously sick, distorted screaming of crippling dysphoria.

Schlatt, obliviously, hit harder than any regular insult ever could.

But there was a silver lining to that memory – Wilbur, immediately standing up and telling Schlatt to prepare to die. Even when he was fifteen minutes away from blowing up the nation he built, he was still ready to cut throats for his son. Fundy thought about that fact more often than he would’ve liked to admit.

“Thank you,” he whispered, expressing more gratitude than Ghostbur could ever fathom – he was thanking his father for everything, for his childhood, for what he did right now, for memories that faded with death. He was thanking him, even if both of them made mistakes along the way, even if Fundy still felt wronged, still felt bitter, still felt broken – this was not the time to discuss any of it.

Right now, the was the time to cherish the small moment of support, fondness and love.

“You’re welcome, Fundy,” Ghostbur whispered back as softly. “It's okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading !! pls leave kudos if u liked my work and write a comment, it's v motivating :) (don't feel pressured tho lmao)
> 
> i think we collectively need more trans fundy fics


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